


A moment's rest

by zinabug



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Elderbug is a cool dude, Gen, I don't have a posting schedule but I'm like halfway done with the other two chapters anyway, I refer to them as little ghost and little wanderer mostly, I would say fluff but it's not that fluffy tbh, Light Angst, a little bit of a tw for canon typical violence and some description of injury, it can be read in any order, let the knight be weird!, tagging stuff for advance chapters, the knight gets a break, they get little a emotions as a treat, they/them pronouns for the knight, this is basically three very short one-shots, this'll probably wind up completed by this time next week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinabug/pseuds/zinabug
Summary: three very short one shots about the knight, and meeting friends at benches.
Relationships: Elderbug & The Knight (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Knight & The Last Stag (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

Elderbug hadn’t expected the little ghost to come back. 

They had come running into town one day, had listened to him speak, and spent some time resting at the bench, never making a single sound besides their footsteps. A small shadow, come and gone, and he almost thought them a part of his imagination. 

They had seemed so small and fragile, their weapon battered and their mask, a perfect white thing around their entire head, had seemed like it would shatter easily. Elderbug dearly hoped they were stronger than they looked. 

The little ghost had been an odd one, with their lack of expression and voids of darkness where he would have expected to see eyes. Elderbug often wondered where they came from, but they never spoke a word, just listened.

He missed their quiet presence, unnerving as it was at the same time, as soon as they jumped down into the old well. He didn’t expect them to come back at all, like the many others who had gone down and never returned. 

Elderbug had greeted those travelers too, told them about Dirtmouth and quietly hoped they would stay when he told them how empty the place was. But, even if they stayed for a short while, one by one, they would head down into the old well and never come back. 

Elderbug would wait for them anyway, next to the bench, with old tales and as much local gossip as he could muster. 

When days had passed and the little ghost hadn’t returned, Elderbug had accepted that they weren’t coming back at all. Until Sly came home, bringing along with him new scratches on his shell and tales of an empty little wanderer. Elderbug felt hope that had slowly been fading surge up again, and he watched the well eagerly for their return. 

Still, it did not come. Even with Sly home and Iselda and Cornifer’s shop opened, Dirtmouth fell back into quiet. 

Elderbug lost hope again. 

He had dozed off despite standing in the cold, waiting next to the bench as his eternal vigil, when the sound of small, pattering footsteps broke the quiet and startling him out of sleep. 

He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to break the hope that was rising again. it was probably just Sly, or the wind, or maybe just his imagination. 

He looked anyway, and his joy in seeing the small pale ghost standing in front of him was quickly overcome with fear. 

Their shell was cracked, dropping a black liquid he could only assume was blood of a sort. Their nail, held in a shaking hand, was stained a bright orange, and the cool smell of the darkness that seemed to be dripping off of them and the brisk breeze through Dirtmouth couldn’t cover the sickly sweet stench of death. 

Elderbug wanted to panic, but he felt frozen at seeing someone he counted as a friend, even though he’d only seen them once, so badly injured. The little ghost seemed unbothered, tipping their head to the side as they looked up at him. 

Listening. 

They wanted to hear what he had to say. 

_ They wanted to hear what he had to say.  _

Elderbug took a deep breath and started telling them about how Sly had come home, and how Iselda could hardly fit in her shop door, and how quiet the town was before everyone had come home, because he had no idea what else to do. The little ghost listened, staring silently while the darkness dropped off of them, waiting until Elderbug was out of words. Then they reached up with one small, orange stained hand and gently patted the edge of his cloak before turning and hopping into the bench. They stared at him for a moment, the darkness in the eye holes of their mask telling Elderbug nothing, before turning to face ahead. 

They were asleep within moments. At least, asleep was the best way Elderbug could describe it. They sat eerily still, head leaning on their chest, as the cracks in their mask slowly started healing before Elderbug’s eyes. 

He blinked, watching as the strange little ghost rested, with more questions buzzing about his head then he’d had in years. 

This little ghost was something different. 


	2. Chapter 2

The little wanderer, the one who had called the stag back to his station, never made a sound. He hardly noticed their weight on his back, but their nail hit solidly against the bell enough for the stag to hear and come to them, and that was what mattered. 

They were quiet, a good listener, and easy to carry. Sometimes the stag wished that they would speak to him and tell him stories of their travels, but the silence they brought with them was comfortable. 

Sometimes, they would call the stag to take them to a station, and the stag would watch them flit in and out of the station, resting on the bench occasionally and sometimes just pausing for a moment to look at a map. 

The stag was content to wait for them. He had waited often and long before in his life, and to sit in a quiet station with the occasional appearance of a friend was one of the best places to wait. He would rest, and listen, sometimes hearing the squawk of some unlucky bug he could assume met their end on the wanderer’s nail. 

They would come and go and sometimes visit him, sit on the edge of the platform instead of hopping right on for a ride and tipping their head to the side. Then the stag would tell them about the things he remembered from before the stag stations had started to close, before the kingdom had fallen. They would always sit perfectly still, listening until the stag finished one story and then they would clamber to their feet and ring the bell one more time before heading off to their next location. 

The stag was very glad they were riding the ways with them. As much as he would like to hear their stories in return, a quiet, light customer was easy on his old bones and fading hearing. 

He would rest in the stations, and the wanderer would come back from their quest and sit at the bench. Oftentimes the old stag would be asleep while they rested, but sometimes he would see them stumble in and sit down. Then, their injuries would heal as if they had never existed, and the little wanderer would hop off of the bench and run out of the station again. It was extremely curious, but it wasn’t the stag’s place to ask, and he didn't mind the little wanderers strangeness. They were a good companion, a good friend. 

And even though the stag was used to loneliness, it was good to have a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

The sounds of fighting snapped Quirrel out of his quiet thoughtful stare down at the city below him. 

Combat wasn’t an unusual sound for him, but he tended to be the one doing it. Especially here, in the city of tears, with nothing but husks, constant rain, and one very rude relic seeker. 

Quirrel stood up from his bench, pulling his mail out of its sheath. He didn’t particularly want to go get in a fight, but if something had riled the husks up, he should go investigate. 

He heard the awful rattling sound of a husk dying, followed by the cries of two others and the sound of a weapon hitting something metal. He tightened his grip on the nail and sighed as he headed towards the noise, not as quickly as he could, but not too slowly either, half hoping the problem would take care of itself and he could go and take a rest out of the rain. He hadn’t rested properly in far too long. 

He kicked the elevator switch, the rattling of the elevator approaching almost covering the sounds of combat below. 

Quirrel suddenly realized that the only sounds were the husks, and, as he stepped into the elevator and hit the down switch, he worried for a horrible moment if he was too late to save whatever poor fool had gotten themselves into a fight with them. 

The elevator was rattling lower and lower, and Quirrel readied his nail, because, he supposed, even if he was too late to save them he could at least clear a few more husks out of the city. 

The elevator hit the bottom floor with a clang, and a spear flew over Quirrel’s head and into the elevator wall behind him. He ducked it easily and ran out, ready to fight. 

It surprised him at first to see the silent little wanderer, holding their mail as they fought off two winged sentry husks. Then, in less than a moment, they looked like they’d always belonged in the rain drenched dead city. 

They turned to Quirrel as the elevator rattled to a stop, and it was just enough of a distraction for one of the husks to throw a spear clean through their chest. 

Quirrel didn’t even look at the little wanderer— he didn’t want to see them hurt, dying— as he launched himself at the husks, slamming one of them into the wall with moves a far cry from his regular practiced, graceful fighting. Now, he was angry, and he just wanted the husks  _ dead _ . 

He heard the last remaining one throw another spear right by his head, and he spun around, decapitating it in one, clean blow. 

The hall was silent again besides the pouring of rain and Quirrel’s heavy breathing. 

Slowly, he turned towards the little wanderer. 

They were standing in the hallway, mask cracked and darkness dripping off of them, but alive. Still alive. 

“Oh dear— are you okay?” Stupid question, of course they weren’t. 

They just stared at him silently, darkness continuing to drip out of the crack in the mask. 

“Let’s get you to the bench.” Quirrel wasn’t sure if he should touch them, but as he took a couple steps towards them, they held up their arms like a child who wanted to be picked up. 

They weighed almost nothing, their skin cool, and damp feeling without being wet. The darkness dripping from them felt like ice, and their cloak was so soft he could hardly feel it there. They were completely limp and still in his arms the whole way to the elevator and up, to the point where Quirrel kept worrying they had died without him noticing. 

He tried to walk to the bench as quickly as possible without jostling then, and he set them down gently on it while he went for his bag to dig out some medical supplies. It took him longer than he would have liked, but when he turned around with a handful of bandages, the little wanderer was sitting straight up and watching him, the cracks in their shell completely gone. 

Quarrel laughed, a little nervously, and set the bandages down. “You’re an odd one.” 

They tipped their head to the side, watching him silently with the empty holes in their mask. 

Quirrel sighed and put the bandages back in his bag, before standing up and sitting down at the bench next to them. 

They just looked up at him. He smiled back, trying to be gentle and encouraging. 

The little wanderer learned their head on his arm. 

Quirrel sat stock still, staring out the window into the rain. He didn’t know what to do  _ but _ sit still, because they seemed to be asleep on top of him. 

So he sat still. The little wanderer weighed almost nothing, just feeling like a cool cloth draped over his arm. Eventually, awkwardness faded to peace and comfort, and Quirrel found himself dozing off too. 


End file.
